The poem is a body. Small malleable thing. Unruly epic thing. Changeling.
*
The body goes through phases. Compact. Ambitious. Fractured. Its form evolves, moving between imperfections, limping along. Whether young or old it must feel new, just born—gasping for first breaths.
*
We do our best to accommodate the odd hours of its need.
*
The body is a self-contained world that exists in relation to other bodies. Their orbits are unpredictable, dazzling, near enough to touch.
*
When the poem is complete, the body dies. It's a death we accept. Sometimes reluctantly. Always eventually.
*
The reader reanimates the body, breathing across a threshold into its dead mouth. The poem stirs with this kiss—words mouthed from the page, muttered & shouted.
*
The poem becomes the body, becomes itself. Nothing else.
